Three Days Later
By the third morning since the transfers arrived, D Block had gone quiet in a way Jovan didn't like.
Not the usual prison quiet, but something tighter.
Roll call came early.
The guards were already irritated before they even reached the cell doors, boots striking concrete too hard, radios crackling with half-whispered exchanges. Jovan noticed it immediately. Guards didn't rush unless paperwork was about to get ugly.
"Inmates up," Jefferson barked. "On your feet."
Jovan swung his legs down from the bunk. His bunkmate, Jericko, was already standing—pale and stiff, hands clasped tightly in front of him.
They filed out.
The block smelled wrong.
Burning.
Jovan's eyes tracked instinctively toward the far end of the line, where a body lay covered beneath a thin gray sheet inside one of the call booths. The outline beneath it was unmistakable: curled inward, fingers drawn tight like claws.
"Where's Carter?" someone whispered.
Another voice answered, quieter. "That's him."
The murmuring spread fast.
Carter had been the religious type. Not loud about it, but steady. Bible under his arm. Prayers whispered at night. Jovan remembered seeing him in the yard once, tracing a cross over his chest just before a fight broke out somewhere else.
Now he was dead.
Jefferson cleared his throat. "Inmate Carter was found deceased during early morning checks."
No one interrupted. The tension pressed in, thick and heavy.
"Cause of death… still under investigation."
Someone laughed—sharp and disbelieving.
"Bullshit," a voice muttered. "You don't look like that from a heart attack."
The sheet shifted slightly as a guard adjusted it.
Jovan caught a glimpse of charred skin beneath.
Burned. Badly.
As if he'd been burned alive.
Jericko's breathing hitched beside him.
"The hell happened to him?" someone asked.
Jefferson's eyes hardened. "Quiet."
But it was already too late. D Block had seen enough.
A guard stepped forward and hauled another inmate out of line: Carter's cellmate. The man looked half-awake, confusion twisting rapidly into panic as his wrists were cuffed.
"I didn't do anything!" he shouted. "I swear to God—!"
"Save it," Jefferson snapped. "You'll enjoy solitary."
The man's protests echoed down the hall long after he was gone.
Jovan didn't believe he was the killer.
Not because of sympathy.
Because his intuition said so.
"Hey," a familiar voice cut in, loud and unapologetic. "This is crazy."
The flamboyant transfer—Dragon—stepped out of line just enough to be noticed. He spread his hands. His usual grin was gone, replaced with something defensive.
"Yeah, I argued with the guy yesterday," he said. "So what? That's prison."
A few inmates glared openly now.
"I saw you threaten him over a cup of coffee," someone said.
Dragon scoffed. "I threaten a lot of people. Strong eat the weak in here. You guys really think I'd kill someone over coffee?"
The silence that followed was uneasy.
The transfers were still new. No real reputations yet. And Dragon's exaggerated bravado had already rubbed more than a few people the wrong way.
Still… it was convenient.
Too convenient.
Jovan narrowed his eyes, glancing briefly at Jericko.
This atmosphere is annoying, he thought, grinding his teeth unconsciously.
His gaze shifted across the block.
The quiet transfer—Kolf—stood near the railing on the upper tier, hands resting loosely at his sides. He wasn't watching the body.
He was watching the block.
As if measuring it.
Jovan's eyes narrowed.
Kolf turned his head slightly.
Behind him, something emerged—thin and angular, its form composed of interlocking pentagonal crystals. Its surface shimmered faintly as the light around it bent, distorted.
The Stand didn't move.
It observed.
Its eyes flared briefly; bright, unnatural, before the figure vanished like it had never been there.
Kolf exhaled softly, then met Jovan's gaze directly.
Jovan looked away.
A Stand user… how annoying.
...
By lunchtime, the rumors had taken root.
"Evil spirit," someone whispered near the sinks."Hell came for him," another muttered."He prayed every night," a third said quietly. "Didn't save him."
The guards didn't care.
Food trays slammed down. Orders were shouted. Carter's name was already being treated like an inconvenience rather than a death.
By lights-out, D Block was silent in a way Jovan had never heard before.
No cards. No shouting. No late-night arguments.
Just men lying awake, staring at the ceiling.
Jericko sat on his bunk, Bible resting in his lap—not reading it. Just holding it like a shield.
"You alright, kid?" Jovan asked quietly.
Jericko nodded too fast. "Yeah. Just… tired."
Jovan studied him for a moment, then spoke again.
"So how'd you end up with your charge?"
Jericko's eyes drifted upward, unfocused, following the dull hum of the ceiling light. He didn't answer at first.
The silence stretched.
Jovan's fingers began tapping against the metal frame of the bunk, slow at first—then faster. Irritation crept into his expression.
Finally, maybe sensing it, Jericko swallowed and made up his mind.
"It was a bad check," he said quietly. "I cashed one from someone… I loved. As soon as the money hit my account, I sent it to her."
He paused.
"It takes three days for the bank to reject bad checks. I didn't know that."
Jovan didn't interrupt.
"I ended up owing the bank forty-three thousand dollars," Jericko continued. "They arrested me before I could fix it. At the trial, I couldn't explain where the money went without making things worse."
His voice faltered.
A pained expression crossed his face—the kind worn by people who had been betrayed by someone they trusted completely.
Jovan watched in silence as Jericko's eyes glistened, tears threatening but never falling. The kind of grief that didn't know how to ask for sympathy.
So the kid really was innocent… huh?
Jovan's fingers stopped tapping. His jaw tightened instead.
"Get some sleep, kid," he said at last. "If anyone gives you trouble, you come to me. Got it?"
Jericko glanced at him, surprised.
"Nobody's gonna hurt you in here."